Grandfather
by Ashtrees
Summary: Sherlock's grandfather is never far away from him. However, people will give you strange looks if you carry you grandfather's skull as you walk down the street and talk to him. A one-shot about Sherlock's grandfather being the skull on the mantelpiece.


**Grandfather**

Sherlock's grandfather is never far away from him.

There were many years when Thomas Holmes was alive and technically Sherlock wasn't, because he hadn't even been conceived back then. Those years were filled with Thomas' own childhood, time spent mostly studying and running around outside. Those golden years were then followed by the dark years of the Second World War, which were spent travelling back and forth to America offering up technological secrets and delights in exchange for resources amongst other things. In between trips he met a woman he eventually came to love, married her and had one son by her. Then that son had grown up, married and had a child of his own - a boy.

Thomas liked Mycroft, but he loved his second grandson more.

Thomas immediately sensed that Sherlock was like him and no one else in the immediate family. As Sherlock grew older the other family members could also see it.

It made Thomas cry to witness how alike they were. Cry because he knew that Sherlock would be alone even if he was surrounded by people and cry because he was happy that Sherlock had him around to teach him the confusing rules of the world. Something he himself never had.

Thomas Holmes was a clever man. He was an excellent mathematician and had been an exceptional cryptographer. Cracking the codes of life was something he had become accustomed to and he had memorized as many codes as was possible. He passed them all onto his grandson.

When Mycroft had been born Thomas had thought that his life was essentially over. There was nothing useful he could do again. But, with Sherlock he had found several new roles in life. He was Sherlock's guide and translator, his friend and enforcer of rules. He called himself Sherlock's cryptographer.

The years went by and Thomas watched as Sherlock grew older, and realized that he was also steadily growing older. He was also starting to feel it.

"I will be dead by next December," he announced to Sherlock one evening.

"On your 88th birthday?" inquired Sherlock.

"Yes. I shall die of a heart attack. Quick and painless and without any fuss."

His grandson snorted. "You can't choose how and when you will die!"

"Can't I? You will be surprised by the power of the human mind. Next December, Sherlock, you'll see."

Sherlock knelt by his armchair and grasped at Thomas' thin hands with their thick coarse hairs. "But, I don't want you die!" the teenager protested.

"Everybody dies, Sherlock. That's why I've given you a cause and a date, so it won't be a shock to you. I have a year left; now, how shall we spend those 365 days?"

Sherlock clung even tighter to Thomas' hands.

"Can't you wait until I am an adult and won't need you as much?" he asked, staring hard at the floor.

Thomas shook his head. "You'll be fine."

When Thomas died (of a heart attack ten hours after his 88th birthday) Sherlock was heart-broken. Their intimate bond had been severed. It was as painful as if Sherlock had had one of his limbs suddenly hacked away. If tears were blood than Sherlock would have bled to death within the first three days of their parting.

Thomas felt helpless as he watched his grandson cry and rock in his room, knowing that he couldn't reduce the pain. After the crying stopped, Sherlock also simply stopped. Shutdown, he spent all of his time lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. No experiments were performed, or music played.

Thomas was angry. All this grieving was pointless.

But, then at long last Sherlock did get it up and while Thomas was pleased initially, the feeling didn't last long.

There were drugs in Sherlock's life and very little chance of a good future.

It was around this time that Sherlock obtained his grandfather's skull. Thomas decided not to think about it too much. He had donated his whole body to medical research, so at least he could be thankful that Sherlock hadn't dug him up.

Sherlock was as restless as a leaf riding the autumn winds and took Thomas wherever he went. There was short stint living on the streets. And then in rehab. And then there were the countless grotty bed-sits.

Thomas was grateful that Sherlock had finally become clean and seemed to have some sort of acquaintanceship with a haggard looking Detective Inspector. He tolerated Sherlock and showed him kindness, something which Thomas had noticed was distinctly lacking in Sherlock's life. He just wished that Sherlock would refrain from talking to his skull as he walked down the street. As he had once told Sherlock there was a great difference between good old quirkiness and plain madness. Talking to your grandfather's skull in public was leaning very much towards the latter.

More years slipped by and Sherlock continued to grow, remembering the rules and tips his grandfather had taught him and as well as learning new ones for himself. But, still Sherlock seemed to be struggling to truly connect with other people. He would still carry Thomas as he walked down the streets, discussing cases and oblivious to the startled looks of passersby's.

So, far only Greg Lestrade had come the close to connecting with Sherlock, who could sustain a short non-case related conversation with Lestrade, but for only about three minutes before he grew tired and lost interest. When there was a case Sherlock was more able to engage fully, but even then it was the Work which sustained his focus and nothing else.

And then once the case was cracked it was back to the bed-sit where there was no living person to talk to or even care that he was there.

The loneliest time had been when Sherlock had caught a horrible stomach bug. It pained Thomas to see Sherlock shivering on the ratty sofa with the pull-out bed and frequently having to stagger to the toilet.

The young detective had enough sense to keep a bottle of water by the sofa, but Thomas knew that there wasn't anything even close to being medicinal in the rooms. The bedsit was far too cold and full of damp for it to be healthy place to reside in for long.

That night the entire street experienced a power-cut; what had passed as central heating was now completely useless. It took of all Thomas' will, but that night he was able to materialize just enough to tug the blanket back over Sherlock's trembling shoulders and stroke his hair until the young man had ceased to mutter in his sleep.

Mercifully, Lestrade dropped by the next morning with armful of cold case files. He swore when he saw the state of Sherlock.

"Right. You're going to spend a few days resting in my spare room," he said, dropping the files onto the table so that he could take a proper look around the cramped room.

Sherlock shook his head. He was still wrapped up in his blanket on the sofa. "I'm fine. I'm over the worst."

Lestrade snorted. "You need proper warmth, not this ice box! Why didn't you call me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked at him.

"If you were that sick you could have asked for help," the detective Inspector explained gently.

Sherlock sat up straight, with a conceited look and trying to make himself look more formidable. Thomas laughed; it was a pointless attempt on Sherlock's behalf. He looked too pale and rumpled to frighten anybody.

"I don't know what you mean, Inspector," Sherlock said, haughtily. "I wasn't that sick. I looked after myself."

Lestrade wasn't fooled for a moment. "Clearly. That's why you look like shit this morning."

They stared at one another. Sherlock broke eye contact first.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. If you insist, _Inspector_."

At that moment Lestrade went up in Thomas' estimate. Anyone who had Sherlock's best interests at heart and was willing to stare Sherlock down, deserved a medal.

Lestrade grabbed some spare clothes from the chipped chest of drawers, throwing trousers and a shirt at the consulting detective and told him to get dressed. Lestrade turned his back while he waited. He stared at Thomas and Thomas stared back.

Once Sherlock was dressed, Lestrade started to usher the younger man towards the door. But, Sherlock suddenly whirled around and snatched up Thomas.

"You're not bringing your skull," Lestrade protested.

"Yes, I am."

"It gives me the creeps."

"I need him."

"Him?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, this attachment you have…._that's_ what I find so creepy, not skull itself - himself! And some of the other Yarders have noticed. And they think you're mad."

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, twirling a lock of hair tightly around his finger as he stared off into the middle distance. Lestrade stood in front of the sofa so that Sherlock couldn't ignore him.

"What is he to you?" he asked. "An imaginary friend?"

Sherlock looked up. "How can he be imaginary? He's a real skull."

"Yeah, but you talk to him."

Sherlock bit his lip, frowning. "_I_ talk at him. There's a large difference. I choose to talk _at_ Skull rather than _at_ the wall or _at_ the television. I talk _at_ him instead of writing notes, which if you think about it is a way of talking back to _ourselves_. Why-why-why do people always assume I'm the mad one because I prefer to have something human in front of me when I think out loud? Talking to the wall _that's_ weird, but I've seen so many people do it! Why don't people they're the mad ones?"

At that point Sherlock had his knees drawn up his chin and his eyes tightly shut. Lestrade took a step back and held up his hands in surrender.

"Calm down," he said, softly. "I don't think it's weird now that you've explained it. I understand now."

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his arm.

"Go away, Lestrade," he moaned. "Leave me alone."

"What about -"

"Just fuck off! I'm sick of playing mind games with you! I am not your friend and never will be, so leave me the fuck alone! You are NOT going to control me!" Sherlock grabbed hold of the closest thing to him, which happened to be Thomas, and hurled him at Lestrade.

Thomas braced himself for the moment when he would smack against the wall or floor and probably crack. How would Sherlock feel then? Even more awful probably.

Fortunately for them both Lestrade was a good catch. He gently placed Thomas down on the table, on top of the cold case files and backed away through the door.

"I'm going, okay? I'm going. I'll check on you tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't reply, just crumpled sideways into the sofa and hiding his head beneath the pillow.

If Thomas could have sighed he would have done.

Thomas was grateful when, true to his word, Lestrade came back the next day with food, medicine and an electric heater. Thomas did his best to prompt his grandson to saying thank you or at least offering an apology to the police officer. Neither happened, but at least Sherlock was far more polite than he had been in a long while. Lestrade seemed to appreciate that. He positively beamed when Sherlock began to go through the cold case files for him.

Months later, came the move to Baker Street. The landlady grimaced when Sherlock informed her that Thomas was a real skull; he had just enough sense not to mention that it was his grandfather's skull. He was finally learning that was such a thing as over sharing.

Thomas was wary of Mrs Hudson. That feeling was justified when she snatched him away and hid him from Sherlock. At first he was sure that Sherlock would be upset and tear the house apart searching for him, but he didn't. That was new. Instead Sherlock seemed happy enough to take his new flatmate out in Thomas' place. That was even newer.

Thomas had been immediately impressed by John Watson. As a solider and a doctor John wasn't an easy man to intimidate and he seemed to own an inexhaustible amount of patience - both good things when dealing with Sherlock. More than that they both clicked with each other.

Thomas was left on the mantelpiece from then on. He was rather glad about that, but was a little jealous all the same. Sherlock finally had a friend he could rely on and apparently no longer needed Thomas. He would have to get used to that. There were times when Sherlock would speak to him whilst alone in the flat, but it was no longer like the old days and Sherlock never took him outside again.

Thomas began to gather dust on the top of his dome. He was a little lonely now that Sherlock had John, but he supposed that this was what death was supposed to be like – quiet and peaceful, and with people only remembering that you were there when they needed you.

Thomas began to slowly slip away from the confines of his skull. He was no longer worried about Sherlock, who had so many good friends to look after him and for Sherlock to look after them. Of course, he would still be around should Sherlock ever need him and want to talk. What else are grandfathers for?


End file.
